Dead Skin
Florence Onyango
Florence Onyango
I found the first one two months after we had moved in. It was wedged behind the fridge which I had shifted while looking for Mimi. I thought it was some kind of plastic wrap, but it was oddly flaccid. I scooped it up with the handle of the broom and carried it to the living room where Obutu was doing his Sudoku by the window with the freshly painted cream frames. I don’t know why I wanted to show it to him instead of throwing it away.
He looked up when I waved it in front of him, his lineaments still drawn in concentration.
“Do you know what this is?”
He peered at it over his horn-rimmed glasses. He murmured to himself as he picked it up from the broom handle. He rubbed it between his fingers, sniffed it, and then delicately stretched it out to the length of his arms.
“So cool,” he finally uttered.
His book of a hundred Sudoku puzzles slithered from his lap to the floor, abandoned. It was a paltry amusement of mine, to muse at the way he could use words like quixotic to describe me but could never conjure any synonyms for the word cool whenever he came across something that fascinated him.
“So, what is it?” I asked again.
“Ecdysis.”
I wait for him to elaborate, which he does after a minute.
“It’s the first one, judging from the size,” He folded the plastic-looking flaccid thing and placed it on the table. “It’s probably harmless.”
My heart gave a little flutter. Obutu was the living embodiment of speaking too soon.
“What’s harmless?”
“The snake.”
He picked up his Sudoku book and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“What snake are you talking about?” I pressed.
“The shed skin. It’s from a small snake, going by the size of it. It’s harmless, if anything, it will get rid of any rodents.”
“Oh my god, Mimi! Call the exterminator or animal control or whoever. We have to find it”
“You’ve not seen that cat in a week, the snake’s probably got to it,” he said to my dismay.
“I’ll kill it.”
Obutu huffed a dry laugh. “Are you blaming a snake for acting on its instinct? I’ve told you before, Mpenzi, you need to stop humanizing animals. There’s a name for it…”
I didn’t stay around to listen.
Animal control came the following day. Combed through every nook and cranny. They found Mimi nestled behind a box of junk in the storage room, but they never found the snake.
I found the second one three years after we had moved in. It was under the couch and three feet long, bigger than the last one. Obutu was away when I found it. It was a Sunday evening, and he was out for his weekend nyama choma and Tusker with his friends who were also his business partners. I placed it over the crack on the coffee table, leaving it there for him to inspect when he got home. Maybe this was the only way to get him to notice that the paint-chipped coffee table was about to split into two.
Obutu found the third one under our bed. Mimi hissed at it when Obutu held it up to the dim yellow light of the nightstand lamp. Obutu had taken to sleeping in the guestroom ever since he discovered that I had been sneaking Mimi into our bedroom after he fell asleep. “How can we have a five-foot-long snake roaming around the house for years without us noticing?” I asked before it turned into another argument about Mimi’s habit of stealing his socks and stashing them under the bed. Obutu looked up at the ceiling “Could there be some space between the ceiling and the roof? Or in the walls?”
“Maybe we should move.”
“It’s lived with us for years and hasn’t bothered us. At this point it’s a pet,” his eyes squinted at Mimi. “If we’re going to abandon it, we might as well abandon Mimi. That’s only fair.”
***
Obutu once told me that it takes seven years for every cell in your body to replace itself and create a whole new you. Maybe that’s why it took him seven years to cover every inch of my skin with his love cells until I was perfect for him, something he had sculptured to his likeness. Maybe that’s why it took me seven years to shed his love, to complete my Ecdysis of this relationship. This is what I am thinking about as I stand at the doorway with a suitcase in tow and Mimi tucked under my arm. I give the house one last sweeping look. The frayed sofas, the cabinets missing door handles, the crusty tan window frames. The seven-foot shed snakeskin spread down the staircase. Obutu sits by the window hunched over a book. Oblivious to me, who stands by the open door, leaving nothing behind but a glut layer of the skin that loved him.
He looked up when I waved it in front of him, his lineaments still drawn in concentration.
“Do you know what this is?”
He peered at it over his horn-rimmed glasses. He murmured to himself as he picked it up from the broom handle. He rubbed it between his fingers, sniffed it, and then delicately stretched it out to the length of his arms.
“So cool,” he finally uttered.
His book of a hundred Sudoku puzzles slithered from his lap to the floor, abandoned. It was a paltry amusement of mine, to muse at the way he could use words like quixotic to describe me but could never conjure any synonyms for the word cool whenever he came across something that fascinated him.
“So, what is it?” I asked again.
“Ecdysis.”
I wait for him to elaborate, which he does after a minute.
“It’s the first one, judging from the size,” He folded the plastic-looking flaccid thing and placed it on the table. “It’s probably harmless.”
My heart gave a little flutter. Obutu was the living embodiment of speaking too soon.
“What’s harmless?”
“The snake.”
He picked up his Sudoku book and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“What snake are you talking about?” I pressed.
“The shed skin. It’s from a small snake, going by the size of it. It’s harmless, if anything, it will get rid of any rodents.”
“Oh my god, Mimi! Call the exterminator or animal control or whoever. We have to find it”
“You’ve not seen that cat in a week, the snake’s probably got to it,” he said to my dismay.
“I’ll kill it.”
Obutu huffed a dry laugh. “Are you blaming a snake for acting on its instinct? I’ve told you before, Mpenzi, you need to stop humanizing animals. There’s a name for it…”
I didn’t stay around to listen.
Animal control came the following day. Combed through every nook and cranny. They found Mimi nestled behind a box of junk in the storage room, but they never found the snake.
I found the second one three years after we had moved in. It was under the couch and three feet long, bigger than the last one. Obutu was away when I found it. It was a Sunday evening, and he was out for his weekend nyama choma and Tusker with his friends who were also his business partners. I placed it over the crack on the coffee table, leaving it there for him to inspect when he got home. Maybe this was the only way to get him to notice that the paint-chipped coffee table was about to split into two.
Obutu found the third one under our bed. Mimi hissed at it when Obutu held it up to the dim yellow light of the nightstand lamp. Obutu had taken to sleeping in the guestroom ever since he discovered that I had been sneaking Mimi into our bedroom after he fell asleep. “How can we have a five-foot-long snake roaming around the house for years without us noticing?” I asked before it turned into another argument about Mimi’s habit of stealing his socks and stashing them under the bed. Obutu looked up at the ceiling “Could there be some space between the ceiling and the roof? Or in the walls?”
“Maybe we should move.”
“It’s lived with us for years and hasn’t bothered us. At this point it’s a pet,” his eyes squinted at Mimi. “If we’re going to abandon it, we might as well abandon Mimi. That’s only fair.”
***
Obutu once told me that it takes seven years for every cell in your body to replace itself and create a whole new you. Maybe that’s why it took him seven years to cover every inch of my skin with his love cells until I was perfect for him, something he had sculptured to his likeness. Maybe that’s why it took me seven years to shed his love, to complete my Ecdysis of this relationship. This is what I am thinking about as I stand at the doorway with a suitcase in tow and Mimi tucked under my arm. I give the house one last sweeping look. The frayed sofas, the cabinets missing door handles, the crusty tan window frames. The seven-foot shed snakeskin spread down the staircase. Obutu sits by the window hunched over a book. Oblivious to me, who stands by the open door, leaving nothing behind but a glut layer of the skin that loved him.
Florence Onyango is a writer based in Nairobi, Kenya. For more than a decade she has told stories in many forms, from journalism to film. When she's not writing, she's most likely watching a cat video, reading, or taking photos of flowers.